


Art Of Keeping Up Disappearances

by savesoulpunk



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Blood and Injury, Robbery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-12 01:31:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7079023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savesoulpunk/pseuds/savesoulpunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>robbers ;</p>
<p>patrick hated the night shift</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. grenade jumper ;

God, Patrick hated the night shift. 

He always had to work alone until 3:00 AM, and then he had classes in the morning. But he can’t leave this job. He could barely pay for rent even with this shitty job, he couldn’t imagine what would happen if he lost it. 

Patrick rubbed his eyes and leaned against the counter. This job was so boring, anyway. He worked the night shift at a gas station. The only business he got was drunk dudes coming in at two to buy more beer and 15 year old kids sneaking out of the house to buy Twizzlers. 

His ears heard the ring of a bell, signaling someone had entered the gas station. Patrick turned towards the door and wasn’t surprised by what he saw. A man with his belt missing a few loops and a sleeve falling off one shoulder stumbled into the establishment, almost tripping over his feet on the way in. 

He made his way to the cooler and yanked a six-pack out of it, then slammed the door and walked towards Patrick. The boy tried not to grimace as the stench of liquor wafted off the man and into his nose. 

He slammed the cans on the counter. “I.D., please,” the young cashier requested.

The man fumbled in his pocket for a moment before pulling out a worn leather wallet. He opened it and shoved his license in Patrick’s face. Poor bloke was only 23, not much older than Patrick himself.

Patrick nodded and entered the beers into the register. The drunkard gave him the amount and ran off before Patrick could give him the change. Patrick watched him stumble down the sidewalk, opening a can and pouring it down his throat. He watched until the drunk man became a small dot in the dark, then nothing at all.

Patrick messed around on his phone for a while, spamming his friend Andy with snaps and texts for when he wakes up. The clerk heard the bell again and turned to the glass doors, expecting another drunk college frat guy. 

Patrick wishes it was another drunk college frat guy. 

A man in all black, black jeans, black shirt and leather jacket, black combat boots, even a black balaclava, stormed in, the glass door banging against the wall. 

Patrick had little time to register what was happening. He glanced out the glass door in panic and saw another man, wearing the same as his counterpart except he wasn’t wearing a ski mask. His head was turned in the other direction and he was pumping gas into a beat up old truck. The only thing Patrick could see about him was a head of big curly hair.

Patrick turned his attention to the man in front of him. He had a gun trained at the scared boy’s face and brown eyes piercing Patrick’s. 

Patrick backed up against the wall and eyed his surroundings. There’s no way he could run. The robber would shoot him before he could make it around the counter. Patrick’s only option was a small gun hidden under the counter that the owner left there for emergencies such as this. This guy was obviously going to ask, no, command for money. If Patrick gave him all the cash in the register, he would be fired. He couldn’t lose this job. He’d lose his apartment and become homeless.

“Open the register and give me all the cash inside,” the man ordered, confirming Patrick’s prediction.

Patrick nodded, too scared to even talk as words got caught in his throat. He moved in front of the cash register and made his hands look like he was going to open it, but he grabbed the gun instead. He swing the gun over the table top and pointed it at the man.

“Please, dude, I can’t lose this job. I can barely pay for rent and food. Please,” Patrick begged, knowing he wasn’t going to take up his offer. Several scared tears dripped from his eyes and he wiped them away. 

Patrick knew there was no way he could ever use this gun. He could never hurt someone intentionally, but he needed to maybe scare the man a little. 

The man seemed to be having a debate with himself. Should he let Patrick go, or shoot him and take the money? 

The man in the ski mask was about to say something before BANG!

Patrick heard it before he felt it. He heard the noise before his shoulder busted open, blood spurting out.

Patrick fell to the floor, his head banging against the counter top as he collapsed. His hand went to his shoulder and he screamed, screamed bloody murder because he felt like he was being murdered. The pain spread to his entire arm and left side of his torso. Burning hot and sharp at the same time. He'd never felt pain like this before. 

Oh my god, Patrick thought, I was just fucking shot. There’s a fucking bullet inside of me right now. 

Patrick let out another scream as blood poured through his fingers and out of the cut on his head. More blood cascaded as his heart pumped more throughout his body. Every thump of his heard brought a new wave of pain to Patrick. His entire body was on fire.

The man in the balaclava stood, panicked, as Patrick shrieked on the ground. He hadn’t fired the bullet. He turned to the door and saw his counterpart at the door, his gun up.

“What the fuck did you just do?!” the first man shouted.

“He-he was pointing a gun at you, Pete. I thought you were going to be shot!” the curly haired man answered. 

The first man, Pete, waved his arms sarcastically. “Well, that’s very sweet of you, Joe. But now you’ve just shot a god damn kid. Oh shit, we’re fucking screwed.”

The men’s heads shot up as they heard siren’s in the distance. Pete looked around and spotted a security camera in the corner of the ceiling. He aimed expertly and shot a bullet into the lens.

Patrick was still screaming. Pete looked around frantically before spotting the kid, slumped behind the counter.

“Shit, Joe, help me grab the kid,” Pete said, jumping over the counter.

Joe’s eyes widened. “What? Why?” Joe asked, frantic.

Pete took a deep breath and looked at Joe. “Because, dude. If the police find him, we’re in even more trouble than we already are. He’s seen your face. Now get his legs,” Pete directed.

Joe nodded nervously and jumped over the sleek counter. Patrick screeched and tried to wiggle out of their arms, but stopped when pain from his shoulder worsened. 

Patrick couldn’t think straight. Pain spread as his blood did, originating in one place, but quickly reached every inch of his body. He knew he should probably get out of the men’s hands, but he was so lightheaded. So tired… he could almost…


	2. the pros and cons of breathing ;

Sirens wailed behind them, frightening Joe and Pete. Pete pressed his foot to the pedal harder, speeding up the truck. Joe’s eyes flickered nervously in every direction, to the road, to Pete, to the police cars chasing them, to the boy lying unconscious in the back seat. 

Patrick’s shoulder still bled heavily from the bullet wound, as did his head from his fall. Pete quickly glanced at Patrick, then back at the road.

“Joe, you have to stop the kid’s bleeding!” Pete shouted, trying to be heard over the sirens.

Joe looked at Patrick again, the back at Pete. “Wha—“

“Do you want a murder under your belt?” Pete asked as he sped around cars.

Joe shook his head and clambered into the back seat. He grabbed a semi-clean rag that was lying on the floor and pressed it to the bleeding shoulder. 

Patrick’s eyes shot open and he screamed. Pain like hot fire shot down his arm, originating at his shoulder where the bullet wound was. He pushed Joe away and grabbed his shoulder, curling up into a ball while tears fell from his eyes.

“Shit, dude, I’m going to help you,” Joe said, panicking. 

Patrick winced as more blood fell from his injuries. “You fucking shot me!” he yelled. Patrick was ready to pass out from the pain again.

“And you’re going to bleed out if I don’t help you,” Joe pleaded. 

Patrick thought through his mind clouded with pain. This guy seemed like he genuinely wanted to help Patrick. This might be the only chance he has at help. And he surely didn’t want to die. He decided to take a chance and let this man help him.

Patrick unfurled his body and took his bloodstained hand away from his shoulder. Suddenly, the truck ran over something and everyone inside was bounced up and down. Patrick screamed as his shoulder landed hard on the seat, more blood leaking out of the wound. His eyes flickered for several seconds before opening again. He was so tired. 

“Stay awake with me,” Joe said. He looked at the bullet wound again and discovered that there wasn’t an exit hole on the back of his shoulder. The bullet was still inside of him.

Joe had been on the run for years now. He knew what he had to do and how to do it. 

Joe leaned over the center console to the glove box and pressed the button to open it. He grabbed the first aid kit and went back to Patrick.

“Pete, can you try to keep the car a bit less shaky? I gotta pull this bullet out of him,” Joe said, taking tweezers out of the first aid kit. 

“I’ll try but I’m kind of driving away from the god damn police!” Pete shouted back. 

Joe took a lighter from out of his pocket and held it under the tweezers, sterilizing them the best he could and almost burning his fingers in the process.

Joe shoved the rag into the boy’s mouth and Patrick looked at what Joe was planning on doing. He immediately spit the towel out and said, “No way! You’re not going inside me with fucking tweezers!”

“Listen, kid,” Pete said from the front seat, “You don’t get that bullet out, you could get a nasty infection. I promise, Joe knows what he’s doing. He’s stitched me up before.”

Patrick still looked scared and had his hand clamped firmly on his shoulder.

“Listen, what’s your name, kid?” Joe asked, his mind whirring, trying to think of a way to convince the kid to let him help.

The boy hesitated for a moment before stuttering “Patrick” out through clenched teeth. 

“Okay, Patrick, I’m really sorry I shot you. Pete’s like a brother to me and I thought he was in danger. Please, I’m trying to fix it,” Joe pleaded.

Patrick hesitantly moved his arm. Joe put the rag back into Patrick’s mouth and said, “This is going to hurt.”

All Patrick could do was widen his eyes before Joe tuck the tweezers in the wound. Patrick’s back arched and he screamed through the bloody rag in his mouth. Joe rested his forearm on Patrick’s torso, pushing him down, before continuing. “Try not to move, Patrick,” Joe said through clenched teeth. 

Patrick cried out as Joe carefully dug around in his shoulder for the bullet. Patrick didn’t know what to think. He had never felt this much pain before. Tears crawled from his eyes as the stranger poked around inside of him. Crushing, burning hot pain radiated from his shoulder. It seared his shoulder and he shrieked again. It felt like his arm was being pulled off.

Joe’s brows were knitted in concentration. This was hard enough with Patrick quivering under him, but in a speeding truck it was close to impossible. 

“Got it!” Joe exclaimed as he pulled the bullet out of Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick took a deep breath and cried out, his body weekly collapsing down and shuddering. 

“Pete, how we doing? Are we close to throwing them off because he’s going to bleed out soon if I don’t stitch him up,” Joe yelled to the front seat. 

Pete made several sharp turns, scaring Joe into ducking down. He was too afraid to look at what Pete was attempting. Suddenly, Pete shut the car off. All the lights went dark and it was eerily silent. The only noise audible was sirens in the distance and Patrick’s weak whimpers.

The sirens soon faded away and Joe peeked his head up. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but as soon as they did, he saw they were parked deep in an alley with several twists and turns around them. 

“How far away are we from the house?” Joe asked, surveying Patrick to be sure he was alive.

“Not far, about half an hour. Can he make it that long?” Pete answered.

“Maybe, but I’d rather not risk it. Hold the flashlight over him while I stitch him up,” Joe said.

Pete grabbed the flashlight front the floor of the passenger’s side and turned around to flash it over Patrick. It was then that the men saw how bad Patrick really looked.

Sweat glistened off his entire face and his face was red and splotchy with tears. He was too grey and pale to be okay. Blood also stained his hair and cheek from the cut on his head, but that had stopped bleeding freely now. Small whimpers escaped from his mouth and the rag had fallen to lay beside his ear. He looked miserable.

“Pete, you got anything I could use as anesthetic or something like that?” Joe questioned, using small scissors in the first aid kid to cut away Patrick’s shirt. 

Pete leaned to the front seat and grabbed a flask from the driver’s side door. “This is all I got,” he said, handing it to Joe. 

Joe sighed and turned to Patrick. “You 21 yet, kid?” he asked.

Patrick weakly nodded. 

“Good, you’re going to want this anyway,” Joe said, tipping the flask to Patrick’s lips. Patrick swallowed each gulp, his body instantly loosening up and becoming more relaxed. Patrick felt some of his pain ease away, but his shoulder still felt like it was on fire. 

“Alright, Pete, shine the light on his shoulder,” Joe said as he set the flask down and picked up a needle and thread. 

Pete did as we was told and Joe began sawing together the small hole. Patrick winced and whimpered, but didn’t move. 

Patrick almost felt like he was having an out of body experience. He was feeling so much pain, but the alcohol made him feel like he was floating and on another plane. 

Joe soon cut the thread and tied a knot. “Let me look at his head before we get going,” Joe said, leaving over Patrick’s head. He wiped some of the sweat and blood away and examined the cut. 

“This is fine, I’ll patch it up when we get home. Go ahead and drive,” Joe said. 

Pete turned back around and began maneuvering his way out of the alley. Joe cleaned up Patrick’s shoulder from all the blood and watched as the young boy’s eyes flickered open and closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what a horrible world we live in. rip christina grimmie.
> 
> "death lies on her like an untimely frost  
> upon the sweetest flower of all the field"


	3. dead on arrival ;

Patrick didn’t know where he was. All he knew was pain.

The pain wasn’t as burning as it was before, but now is entire body was throbbing. Every little twitch made the pain double. He wanted to open his eyes and escape the hell he was in. 

But he couldn’t open his eyes. He was too weak. Patrick never thought he would be too weak to do something as simple as open his eyes. 

Patrick was vaguely aware of what was happening beyond his eyelids. He had been carefully carried by rough hands and laid down on a bed. Every so often, he heard someone entering the room and he felt gentle fingers checking on his shoulder and head. 

Patrick’s mind was in overdrive. What would he do when he woke up? Should he trust these guys? One of them had shot him. And kidnapped him.

On the other hand, that same guy probably saved his life.

Patrick was so confused. He didn’t know what to think or where he was. And he was scared. Scared for his life.

Patrick didn’t know how long it was before he found the strength to open his eyes. They felt like they had been closed for years. Everything was blurry for a moment.

His head was pounding. The small amount of light that was in the room was enough to make him want to fall back asleep forever.

He groaned and tried to sit up, which proved to be a difficult task. Any small flinch on his left side shot daggers into his shoulder. He slowly pushed himself to a sitting position and surveyed his surroundings. 

He was in a bedroom, by the looks of it. The walls were a dark wood paneling, as were the floors. The walls were also bare of any decoration. There was a bookshelf on the other side of the room with classic titles carefully placed on the shelves. Neat bookshelf for criminals, Patrick thought. 

Next to the bed he was lying on was a small table with a lamp set on top of it. The bed itself was a twin size with a quilt that Patrick was sitting on. Patrick leaned back against the pillows and took a deep breath. What now?

Apparently he didn’t have a lot of time to think because at that moment, the blonde-haired man opened the door and stepped into the room. 

Patrick froze. What is he supposed to do now?

The man walked toward the bed and sat on the edge, causing Patrick to shrink back. He cradled his injured shoulder and didn’t speak. 

“Hey, kid. Glad to see you’re awake,” the man said. Patrick still kept his mouth shut. 

“Patrick, right?” the man asked. 

Patrick nodded hesitantly. 

“Okay, Patrick, I’m willing to bed you’re scared right now,” Pete ventured. 

Patrick paused before nodding. 

“Alright, I figured as much. My name’s Pete. How’s your shoulder?” the man, Pete asked. 

Patrick still stayed silent. Why was this man who held him at gunpoint being so… kind now?

“You sure are quiet now,” the man said, chuckling. “You weren’t this quiet earlier in the truck.”

“Because I had a fucking bullet in my arm,” Patrick said, a bit irritated by this guy. 

The man chuckled again. “I’ve had my fair share of bullets, dude. I get it,” Pete said.

“I-I don’t understand,” Patrick whimpered.

Pete cocked his head. “What?” 

“Y-you were going to rob me… a-and shoot me. Your friend put a bullet in my shoulder. Why are you being so nice now?” Patrick said quietly. 

Pete sighed. “Listen, man. I’m sorry you got shot and banged your head up. It’s our fault. To be completely honest, I don’t like robbing stores and shit. I only do it ‘cause we’re broke,” the older man said, looking down at his hands. 

“W-why don’t you just get a job?” Patrick questioned.

Pete stood up. “Because the only skill set I have is how to aim a gun. Not a lot of jobs look for that criteria. I’ll go get Joe to look at your shoulder,” he said before walking out of the room. 

Patrick still didn’t know what to think. This Pete guy took pleasure in scaring others apparently. This wasn’t someone Patrick was keen on being friends with. 

But Patrick couldn’t forget that the other guy, Joe, had helped him. He’d shot him, but he did it to protect his friend. There was something admirable in that, he had to admit. 

The curly haired man named knocked on the door frame, breaking Patrick away from his thoughts. 

“Hey, man. How you feeling?” Joe asked, walking up to the bed.

“My fucking shoulder hurts,” Patrick grunted. 

Joe scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. Really. I don’t know if you heard when I told you in the car, but I thought you were going to hurt Pete. Pete might as well be my big brother. He took me in when no one else would. I’d take a bullet for him,” Joe said as he sat on the edge of the bed like Pete had.

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t,” Patrick said. ”And, dude, look at me. I’m a 5’4” 22 year old that makes his living at a gas station. You really think I would shoot somebody.”

Joe sighed. “I didn’t look, I just acted. I didn’t look at you, only to aim. You don’t even know how much I regret it.”

Patrick finally decided to give these guys a chance. Sure, they were criminals, but Joe was just scared for his friend. He didn’t exactly intentionally hurt Patrick. Well, he did actually.

This was making Patrick’s head hurt more than it already did. He groaned as the pressure behind his eyes increased.

Joe raised an eyebrow. “Alright, let me take a look,” he said, leaning over the strawberry blond to look at the wounds.

“One question, what makes you qualified to pull a bullet out of my shoulder and stitch up my skin?” Patrick asked as Joe stripped away the bandage on his head.

Joe checked the stitching and said, “Both my parents were doctors and they planned on me being one as well. They weren’t keen when I told them I wanted to go into music instead. They taught me the basics and I taught myself the rest. I’ve been on the run like this with Pete for four years now. Packed my bags and left when I was 18.”

Patrick was surprised at how much he could relate to this guy. “So, you’re 22?”

Joe nodded and rubbed some ointment on the cut on Patrick’s head. 

“Me too. I’m taking classes for music theory at the university right now,” Patrick said. He winced as Joe carefully taped another bandage to Patrick’s head.

Joe moved down to Patrick’s shoulder. He moved the fabric of Patrick’s shirt to the side and peeled the bandage off the pale skin. Patrick winced as the tender skin around injury was pulled on by the tape. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered, leaning his head back.

Joe examined the injury and checked the stitching. As he did this, he said, “That’s so cool, man. I’ve always wanted to do music, but with this life, the closest I get is strumming a guitar in a ruddy bar.”

Patrick nodded. He peeked at his shoulder and immediately looked away. The hole in his shoulder had stopped bleeding, but it was being held together by surprisingly neat stitches. 

“These should heal just fine. You’ll be good as new in a month or two, but until then, you’ll be hurting. I won’t lie, it hurts like a bitch when it’s healing,” Joe said, grabbing a bandage from the bedside table and applying it to Patrick’s shoulder. 

Patrick grimaced as he did so. “So, you’ve been shot before too?” he asked, trying to distract himself from the crushing pain.

Joe chuckled. “Yeah, twice actually. Armed robberies tend to do that,” he said. 

Joe finished taping the bandage and leaned up. He pulled park of his sleeve up to reveal intricately inked designed on his forearm, as well as a nasty scar, the same shape as the hole in Patrick’s shoulder. “One here, one on my thigh.”

“Jesus, am I going to have a scar like that?” Patrick asked, his eyes widening at the torn up, discolored skin.

“Unfortunately, yes. My deepest apologies again,” Joe said, wiping his hands on his jeans. He left the room, then returned a moment later with a clean shirt and pajama pants. 

“There’s a bathroom down the hall, if you want to wash up,” Joe said.

Patrick nodded and stood up, immediately regretting it. The world swum in front of his eyes. He felt arms catch him before he could fall. Someone was saying something to him, but he couldn’t hear him. He was just trying to figure out which was up.

“Oh my god, I think I’m gonna be sick,” Patrick groaned. Joe sprang into action and grabbed Patrick around his waist and shoulders, supporting him to the bathroom where Patrick collapsed in front of the toilet. The boy emptied what was left in his stomach of the little he had had to eat in the last day. 

Joe watching on with a heart full of guilt. He had caused this and there was nothing he could do to fix it. 

Patrick eventually leaned back against the tiled wall, breathing heavily and whimpering at the pain in his shoulder. He cradled his arm and sweat glistened off his forehead. 

“Shit, dude, you puke from hitting your head, that’s a concussion. You need to not move and lay low for a while,” Joe said, crouching down next to him. 

Patrick nodded, grimacing as he did so. “Let me get changed and I’ll be out soon,” he said, pushing himself up against the wall with his good arm. Joe helped him stand and Patrick leaned against the wall. 

“You need help getting changed?” Joe offered. Patrick scoffed. 

“I think I can manage,” he said through clenched teeth.

Joe put his hands up in mock surrender. He left the bathroom and closed the door behind him. 

Patrick winced as the striking pain sparked from his shoulder as he took his shirt off. The shirt was already in pieces and barely clinging to his body. He pulled the shirt Joe had set out for him from the counter and saw it was a Joy Division cotton tee. Okay, these guys had good taste in music, he had to admit that.

Patrick pulled the shirt on with much difficulty and many whimpers. He pulled his jeans off and saw his phone fall out of the back pocket. 

Oh, shit he thought. 

If Pete or Joe find out Patrick still had his phone, they might take it from him. If things go south (even more than they already had), Patrick needed a way to contact somebody. Patrick somewhat trusted these guys, they seemed like they were just hurting for money and protective of each other. 

Patrick pulled the pajama pants on with his good hand and stuffed his phone in his pants before opening the door. Joe was leaning against the wall across the hallway. He stood up straight when he saw Patrick. 

“Feeling any better?” the curly haired man asked. They began walking back to the room Patrick was in before. 

“Eh, a little nauseous. And I’m super tired. And my shoulder feels like there’s an iron hot rod poking through it. But other than that…” Patrick said, joking but not lying. 

Joe grimaced and said, “Again, sorry about that.”

They stepped into Patrick’s room and Patrick laid down again, not realizing how sleepy he was until his head hit the pillow. 

Joe noticed Patrick’s eyes flickering and shook his uninjured shoulder. Patrick flinched and opened his eyes. “Lay off, man. That hurts,” he said.

“Sorry, but stay awake. I’ll be back, I’m going to get some pain meds,” Joe said before leaving the room. 

He came back several moments later with a bottle labeled “Aleve”. He shook three pills into Patrick’s hand and said, “Now, in my experience, this doesn’t do much for bullets wounds, but it takes it down a notch.”

Patrick stared at the pilled skeptically, then shrugged. He popped them into his mouth and dry swallowed with a grimace. “You know, usually, I take two,” he said. 

“You’re a small guy, you probably only need two. But you need all the help you can get. Sleeping is rough when you’re shot, and you need it,” Joe responded. 

Patrick nodded and sunk into the sheets a bit more. His eyes closed again and Joe chuckled. “Get some sleep, man,” he said. 

Patrick was gone before Joe could turn off the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to the people that comment on my stories. always gives me a confidence boost. hope you enjoy <3


	4. tell that mick he just made my list of thin to do today ;

Joe stepped out of the dark room, gently closing the door behind him. He made quietly walked down the hallway and stepped into the dining room. He grimaced when he saw Pete sitting in one of the chairs, his head in his hands.

“What are we going to do, Pete?” Joe asked desperately, pulling a chair put and plopping into it. 

Pete rubbed his eyes. “I—I don’t know. Joe, you shot a fucking kid. This isn’t some dime store robbery. This is… you could go to jail.”

Joe nodded. “You think I don’t know that?! I’m scared out of my mind! I’ve never shot someone before, and I didn’t plan to start anytime soon. What are we going to do with him? Are we just going to keep him forever or throw him on the side of the god damn road? This is insane!” Joe said, his voice raising. 

Pete grabbed his shoulder. “Calm down, man. We’ll figure it out. We always do. But you need to calm down. You don’t want to wake him up and have him be in pain,” Pete said.

Joe took a deep breath. “Okay but what are we going to do?” he asked.

Pete shook his head. “Well, I’m thinking we have to get him better and healed up before doing anything else. We can’t leave him alone and in pain. We started this and we’ll fix it,” he said.

The younger man nodded. “Okay, okay. But we have the police after us now. They know our truck and probably saw our license number,” Joe said.

“I’ll replace the plate and hot wire a new car if we need to. They didn’t see our faces or where we live. Everything is going to be okay,” Pete said.

Joe nodded again, his curls bobbing. 

“Anyway, how is he? I know his shoulder is fine, hell, a shot to the shoulder won’t kill you. But what about his head? Is it bad?” Pete questioned. 

Joe sighed. “He vomited earlier when he stood up, which most likely means he has a concussion. If he lies low for a while, he’ll be fine. His shoulder should be healed in about three months, maybe? It depends on how healthy he was before. He’s 22 and seemed pretty healthy so he should heal fine. I hope so, at least,” he said, trying to put the little medical training he had to good use. 

“Shit, I don’t know if we can hide him for three months. I guess the police will stop looking soon, but his family won’t. We might have to bring him back sooner than that, or not at all—“

“No, Pete, we have to bring him back. He’s got family. I… I won’t let him do the same thing I did. There’s too much guilt,” Joe interrupted. 

Pete looked at him for a moment, then nodded again. “You’re right. We’ll bring him back.”

Pete stood up and pushed his chair in. “This has been a hell of a day, I’m going to bed,” he said, walking out of the room. 

“Night, P—“Joe was cut off by a crash and a scream. 

From Patrick’s room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment what you think <3


	5. chicago is so two years ago ;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ao3 is messing with the format. up until the ***** it should be written in italics. i don't know why it's not working
> 
> anyway, here's wonderwall

tw: abuse

He held me down, restraining my arms above my head and a hand pressed around my throat. My body was slack, unable to help myself. Too scared to move because that might make it worse. 

He threw me off the bed, my head hitting the ground with a thud. Stars rained down in my vision and black spots danced around in front of me. He walked up to my unmoving body and began kicking my torso, His combat boots connected with my ribs. Purple rings appeared in my sight, the color similar to the bruises forming on my stomach, back, chest… everywhere. He bent down and straddled my waist. Fist after fist connected with my face.

I felt blood run down my cheek where His ring connected with eyebrow. My eye started to swell shut and ruby red liquid dripped from my nose. 

After what felt like an hour, He stood up, planting one more kick to my side before muttering, “Worthless.”

He left the room, slamming the door shut behind Him. I laid on the floor, blood beginning to make a small pool around my head. My throbbing head began to panic. I can barely move, how am I going to make it to work? I’m paying for this apartment on my own and He isn’t doing anything to help. 

I forced my eyes open and pushed myself up on one elbow. I winced and held back a screech. I couldn’t let the neighbors get suspicious. No one could know what He was doing to me.

Except for one person. 

I dragged myself to the nightstand where my phone was laying abandoned. I brought my bruised arm up and grabbed the phone, my arm falling limp once it was in my hand. I struggled to see through clouded vision and unlocked it. I went to Andy’s contact and pressed “Call”.

It rang several times before his delicate voice rang through instead. “Hello? Patrick, what’s up?” 

“Andy,” I breathed out. “Please help.”

I heard things shuffling. “Fuck, Patrick, not again?” his scared voice asked.

I didn’t respond, not knowing how to and being too weak to whisper. 

“Patrick, are you still there? Are you okay?” he asked, voice filled with panic. 

“Yeah,” I wheezed, though I could feel my eyes fluttering closed. 

“’Trick, stay on the line with me. I’m on my way now. Be there in five minutes,” he said. I could hear a car starting. 

I dropped the phone, mumbling a “yes” to Andy every time he asked if I was still there. Before Andy could arrive though, I lost consciousness. 

*****

Patrick sat up in his bed, screaming. His body twisted in shock and he rolled of the bed, falling to the floor with a thud. He landed on his wounded shoulder and howled even louder. 

Moments later, the light above him illuminated the room. Pete and Joe were by his side as Patrick shook, still terrified from his nightmare. The men looked at each other, then lifted Patrick on to bed.

“Patrick, what the hell happened?” Pete said, his voice loud but filled with concern. 

Patrick flinched at the raised voice, but shook his head. “N-nothing,” he stuttered out quietly. 

Joe and Pete shared a look. “Why did you scream? And fall off the bed?” Pete asked again as Joe checked Patrick’s stitches.

Patrick just let out his breath in short gasps and scooted to the corner of the bed. He huddled in on himself. He was trying to convince himself that he was safe, but the reality was, he wasn’t. He was in the same room as criminals. They could kill him if they wanted to. 

Patrick’s breaths became shorter and he gripped the sheets around him even tighter, despite the burning pain in his shoulder telling him to relax. 

“He’s having a panic attack,” Joe said. Pete nodded and moved so he was sitting in front of Patrick. Pete knew how to help with panic attacks, he’d been prone to them as a teenager.

Pete grabbed Patrick’s hand, but the younger man pulled his hand away, flinching violently. Patrick couldn’t get the thought out of his head that it was Him. 

Pete ditched that method. “Patrick, I need you to look at me. Look into my eyes. Patrick,” Pete said.

Patrick forced himself to obey. He raised his head and his tearstained eyes met Pete’s whiskey brown ones. 

“Take deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Can you do that?” Pete begged, hoping Patrick was okay. 

Patrick’s head was throbbing. He could barely hear what Pete was saying, he sounded distant. The smaller man made himself breathe slower and forced his grip on the sheet to loosen. 

“Patrick…” Joe said gently, “What happened? Why did you scream?”

Patrick’s eyes flicked between Joe and Pete. “I—It’s nothing. I just—I get n-nightmares. It’s nothing new… not a big deal,” Patrick stuttered out.

“Is it because of us? Do you want to be taken back?” Pete offered, earning a glance from Joe.

Patrick thought about it. He wanted to go back to Andy and his family… but he wanted to stay away from his devil of a boyfriend. It’s sad that the only way Patrick could get away from Him was being kidnapped. 

“N… no, it wasn’t you. It’s just… never mind. I’m fine,” Patrick said, hoping they would buy it.

He had no such luck. 

“Dude, tell us. We’re not here to judge. I’ve had bad shit happen to me that caused nightmares. Besides, we live in literal fucking seclusion. Who are we going to tell?” Pete pleaded. 

The short blonde boy say the look in Pete’s eyes that told him Pete wasn’t going to give up. Patrick swallowed, causing a sharp throb to resonate through his head. Patrick fought through the pain and sighed. 

“My—my boyfriend isn’t exactly the nicest guy. He um… he abuses me. And it causes bad nightmares,” Patrick said quietly, picking at the sheet.

Pete made an angry noise, then got up and stomped out of the room. Joe was about to go after him, then turned back and saw the fearful look in Patrick’s eyes.

“I’ll be right back,” Joe said, then left Patrick alone in the room.

Patrick already regretted telling them.

**Author's Note:**

> should i continue this??


End file.
